Broken
by SandmanCircus
Summary: She was broken and he wasn't sure that he could fix her. HawkWidow.
1. Chapter 1

**Broken**

Snow fell cautiously through the holes of the shackled church roof, blanketing the cracked faces of angels and broken bodies of men as the morning light reiterated the reality of last nights morbid dance.

Within the pews, a young girl clad in nothing but a black dress sat among the stiffened bodies. The blood that stained her skin and hair had long since dried, causing burgundy flakes to fall from her skin at every twitch. Her unseeing eyes stared hard at the knife beside her, small strands of hair stuck to the blade from her freshly sheared hair.

"It would appear that once again, congratulations are in order."

Natalya stiffened despite herself, clenching and unclenching her fingers sporadically. It became harder to breathe as he grew closer, even without the damning sound of glass cracking beneath boots, she had always been hyper aware of his presence.

She remained silent, the man had not expected a reply.

"How are you, my angel?" He had, by that point, reached her side and already his cold fingers had begun tracing blood down her arm. His voice crackled softly, echoing against the walls, hoarse from decades of yelling and thousands of cigars.

"All the targets are dead," she reported quietly, her words visible plumes in the harsh, Russian cold.

He ignored her as he moved into the pew behind her, steps meticulous. "I see you have cut your pretty hair."

Natalya fingered the spiky strands as she stared at the the blood splattered cross. "I thought it was... fitting."

"Is that so?" She could hear a rustle of clothes and a _flick _as he lit up a cigar. The smell curled around her as he blew smoke into her back. "I quite liked your hair, Natalya... I thought it was beautiful." He touched her neck, stroking the skin. "Don't you want to be beautiful for me?"

_No_.

"Yes."

"Did they touch you?"

Flashbacks shot through her mind like bullets. "Not this time."

There was a long pause as his fingers crawled further around her throat. "Tell me Natalya, are you cold?" he asked her after a moment.

Her eyes drifted to her bare toes: numb and blue, caught in a tangle of abandoned red hair. She'd been in the abandoned church since midnight, cold and alone, numb in mind and body. "No."

Her skin singed as he stubbed the burning cigar into her bare shoulder. Natalya's breath hitched in pain. "Then why the defiance?"

She fought against his hold, voice cracking. "I didn't -"

A second later saw her crashing down heavily into the pews. The aged wood splintered and cracked beneath her body as the man's hulking form straddled her waist, gloved hands gripping her thin throat. The strange calm surrounding him was gone as his face bled red in fury.

"Don't fuck with me! I know your games, Natalya - I know how you think. You ever try shit like this again, I will shut you in a closet for a month - no food, no light, no water. The only respite from your solitary prison will be at the hands of strangers as they touch you, feel you, _brake _you. Your sad attempt at rebellion will all be for naught - no one will care about the sheared hair of girl they cannot even _see_." Natalya choked, squeezing her eyes shut as she clawed at his fist.

"Are you scared, Natalya? Do you fear my touch?" Tears flooded her eyes as she struggled beneath him. "_Answer me_!" he screeched. Natalya frantically nodded her head against the pressure. The leather-clad man tightened his fingers one last time before getting up, spitting at the small body at his feet.

"Get up. We still have work to do."

Natalya shakily rose and, unsteadily, followed her employer down the aisle, feet too numb to feel the glass slice her toes.

As they passed through the large oak doors the man turned to an armed guard. "Burn it."

Once stowed in away the back of a large black van, Natalya watched the small church ignite, burning away all evidence of bloodshed.

"Try to clean yourself up, we're heading to Makhachkala for a small scale assassination." Natalya turned away from the window in time to catch the damp cloth tossed to her. She began scrubbing her skin.

"Are you ready, my angel?"

_Scrub, scrub, scrub._

"Yes father."

* * *

**Please let me know if you catch any awkward sentences or grammatical errors!** - **Thanks**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This was supposed to be updated Sunday but I decided, what the hell?**

* * *

**Broken**

"Simple and easy, my child. Get in, seduce him, find his sources, kill him."

Natalya pursed her lips as she cocked her gun. The weight of it felt comfortable in her hand.

Her father noticed the small movement and coughed out a patronizing laugh. "You thought a haircut would change the way we work?" He chuckled. "No, love, these poor bastards don't care what you look like so long as they can tickle the thighs of anyone under sixteen."

Natalya didn't reply, and simply looked out at the motel. "Who is he?" she wondered aloud, words soft but tone distant.

"He's a journalist. Matthew Gibbs. He's been hitting the mark on too many things for it to be just luck, we think he's been paying a mole in the family. Why?" The look he gave her held a distinct warning. "Is there a problem?"

"No."

"Good. Now go."

"Yes sir." Natalya jumped out the van, feet still bare as she stalked towards her target.

She caught her reflection in the window of a parked care. She touched her hair, tugging on the jagged ends just below her ears. She hadn't expected any kind of reprieve from her job when she'd cut it, sexual or otherwise. It had only been a spur of the moment impulse. That night, her blood soaked hair had kept sticking to her neck, re-attaching itself every time she peeled it off. In a fit of frustration and hysterics she'd cut it all off, the sheared pieces left to fall at her feet.

_His beloved hair_.

Maybe now he would stop calling her beautiful.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! You can't go up there." Natalya stopped just as she was moved to enter the elevator, turning to a pudgy faced man on behind her. "Only guests are authorized to access rooms, Miss."

"I have an appointment," she told him.

The hotel owner shook his head. "No exceptions. Tell your friend to come down and get you."

Natalya walked up to the man's desk and dropped a heavy roll of bills onto the counter.

Notably surprised, the man picked up the roll, eyeing her suspiciously after leafing through it. "What's your name?" he asked her.

"Rose."

A realization of some sort flashed in his eyes as he gave her small black dress a second look. "You're looking for your John, then? What are you - fifteen, sixteen?" Natalya's face remained impassive as he leered at her.

"Which room is Matthew Gibbs staying in?"

"Oh, the American? He's in three-nine. I owe that bastard thirty-thousand roubles from a rigged poker game."

Natalya raised her eyebrows, but nodded politely. "Thank you."

"Hey! If you're ever in need of business - "

"You can't afford me," she said over her shoulder as she walked away.

* * *

The walls smelt like piss and decay, the stench hitting her noes as the rickety elevator screeched to a halt and opened its doors. With swift steps, she silently walked down the hall, knocking firmly on the door with a rusty nine nailed to it.

"Come in."

Natalya twisted the knob quietly, peering inside to see an older man staring out the window. His arms clutched a small laptop to his chest. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"My name is Rose." Natalya replied in english, palms sweating as she gripped the pistol behind her back. "My services have been offered courtesy of the hotel, Mr. Gibbs. I'm meant to settle a gambling debt."

He turned to stare at her over his shoulder, a crazed, suspicious, glint in his eye.

"_You're lying!_" he screeched. Natalya froze, shocked at the outburst. "You're lying," he repeated, gritting his teeth. "You're lying, you're lying, you're lying, _you're lying_!" His desperate screams rattled her. Trembling, he pulled a gun out of his pocket and aimed it at her.

"They warned me, you know - warned me that you'd come to kill me." Sweat ran down his face as he shifted on his feet, anxious.

The gun shook widely in his hands, advertising his inexperience in arms. Natalya decided to press on, readying herself to dart in either direction should he start shooting.

"Who warned you?"

"SHIELD did - of course, I never believed them when they told me." He licked his lips. "But that _is_ why you're here, isn't it? You've come to kill me."

Natalya remained impassive, careful to mask any emotion on her face. "Who is SHIELD?" she asked calmly.

He ignored her, shaking his head. "I know that it's my laptop you want. You want to see the dirt, find my sources." His eyes were wild under the dim light. "No, I won't let that happen. I won't let you kill me!" He closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

Natalya rolled to her right and after 6 rounds had been shot, she peaked her head up over the couch and planted a slug through Gibbs's forehead.

Having heard that familiar _thud_ as her target dropped to the ground, Natalya pulled herself up shakily, a ricocheted bullet in her upper thigh hampering her movement. She'd gotten a name - SHIELD - but that wouldn't be enough to appease her father and, as of one minute ago, the laptop contained the only knowledge about possible moles from within their ranks. Peeling it from the dead man's fingers, Natalya sat down on the bed.

As she opened the laptop she was met with the glaring red numbers of a ten second count down and taped beneath, a note with the words: _GO FUCK YOURSELF_ written in english.

"Oh God." After the initial shock had passed, Natalya and ran to the window, growling with effort as she tried to open it. After a frantic moment of struggle, she lost patience and shot four rounds through the window. The steady beeping grew in tempo just as Natalya leapt from the third-story window into a small snowbank below. After struggling to her feet, Natalya broke into a sprint, adrenaline masking the pain as she ran towards the dark van parked 100 metres away.

The explosion sent her flying.

* * *

"What the _hell_ happened?"

Natalya wearily opened her eyes, cringing in pain as she lifted her head to stare at the looming form of her father. "He had a bomb," she muttered, head in her hands - the explosion still ringing in her ears.

"No shit." He crouched down beside her and stuck two fingers into the bullet wound in her thigh ignoring Natalya's frantic screams. He looked her right in the eye, "What. Else_._"

"He... _agh_... he mentioned a name. An organization - " He pressed harder. "SHIELD! He said they'd told him we were coming! Please just... "

He frowned, taking his fingers away. "Anything more?"

She swallowed, shaking her head. "That's all, he started shooting and - " Her words were cut off as his hand cracked against her cheek.

"Do you know what you've done?" He asked her calmly, standing up.

"I killed him like I was suppose to!" Natalya cried, her voice cracking in her frustration. Tears made her eyes shine.

"You _killed him_ before getting any useful information and you were _dumb_ _enough_ to trigger a bomb that destroyed any and all evidence." He stepped on her injured hand, her knuckles still imbedded with glass from the window pane. "I don't take failure well, Natalya. "

"_Stop_! Please no, please. I'm sorry, _I'm sorry_. No, please," Natalya screeched in pain, trembling.

"_Shut up!_" His breathe came out heavy in his anger. "You fucked up, now you're going to pay the price. You thought it was bad before? You thought you hurt, _before_? You thought you knew hunger, thirst, loneliness, heartache? _You know nothing_!" He smirked cruelly at her attempts to free herself. "You will lay beneath me, _helpless_ as I..."

Natalya's father was interrupted as a sleek arrow shot straight through the side of his head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Broken**

Natalya watched, frozen, as the body of her father crumbled dead into the snow. She barely registered as the armed guards burst into action around her, frantically seeking out the threat only to fall, each with an arrow stuck in their throats.

She didn't know how long she sat there staring, shocked. Her whole life, her entire purpose - gone. His death, the fact that he _could_die was beyond surreal. She felt confused, disoriented.

What now?

Behind her, the soft crunch of footsteps alerted her to the approach of her father's killer.

"Natalya Romanova..."

Her hackles rose at his voice and once he was within range, Natalya twisted her body and threw a knife at his head. Having expected it, he easily dodged the attack, though hadn't counted on her launching herself at him directly after. She screech in his ear as she latched a leg around his neck and clawed at his face. They crashed into the snow soon after, rolling around exchanging close contact blows until he managed to kick her off him. Natalya got up shakily, ready for her second attack when she was abruptly clubbed in the head with the end of his bow.

"Stay down," he warned her in russian, pulling out a gun and pointing it at her forehead.

She glared at him as they both regained their breath. The man was clad in top-notch winter gear and a mask covered the upper half of her face. He pulled it down when he spoke next.

"I was sent here on a mission that called for the death of both you and your father."

"_Then do it_," Natalya hissed. His eyes searched hers, looking for something in her gaze. She wondered if he found it - she could only imagine how she looked to him: skimpy dress drenched in blood, blue toes and bare feet, cropped hair, bullet wounds, scrapes and bruises and bloodied fists.

"You don't want to die," he told her. It wasn't a question.

For a long time after, they simply stared at each other. Cold wind blew around them as they seemed to come to a reluctant understanding: he didn't want to kill her, and she didn't want to die. There was no trust between them and the frowns marring their faces spoke of their frustration.

After what felt like an eternity, the man lowered his gun, a resigned look on his face. He holstered the weapon as he pressed a button on his metal earpiece.

"This is Agent Barton." He met Natalya's suspicious stare once before sighing. He pinched the bridge of his nose and in a pained voice said, "There's been a slight change of plans."

* * *

For the first time in her memory, Natalya woke up warm.

As much as she wanted to relish the foreign experience, she'd learned that pleasant things came with a price, oftentimes one that she could not afford. With that in mind, she pushed herself up from the squeaky bed, squinting in the morning light. A sudden, sharp pain in her thigh had her grimacing as she felt the familiar tug of stitches.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Natalya's head turned towards the figure leaning casually against the wall. Barton.

"You've got ten stitches in your arm," he continued. "Five in your thigh from the bullet hole, and another in your hip - though, I suppose that's what you get for jumping through a glass window." Natalya narrowed her eyes at his cheeky smile, wondering just how long he'd been up on his perch, watching and waiting.

"So, Natalya - "

"Don't call me that," she snapped. "Natalya is a trained assassin. _Natalya_ has a father, a job, a life - _a purpose_." Shaking her head, Natalya looked down at her bandaged hands, clenching her fingers tightly. "I'm not that person. Not anymore."

"Then who are you?"

Surprised by the question, she looked up at Agent Barton's calm face. With furrowed brows, she opened and closed her mouth, unsure. "I don't know." And as she stared into Barton's passive gaze, she don't know which scared her most: the truth in her words, or the fact that she'd readily spoken them to him.

"Makes sense." Barton tiredly rubbed his face as he slid down the wall. He laughed suddenly as a thought came to him. "You know, I'm going to be in so much shit when they find out what I've done."

"Then why'd you do it?"

Barton's palms fell away from his face as he looked up at her. For several moments after they simply stared at one another until finally he shrugged, a faint smile on his lips. "I don't know."


End file.
